 | Poems (1983) |  |
[Was I to blame to trust]
[1]
Was I to blame to trustThy love like teares when t'is most just
To judg of others by our owne? While mine
From heads of love and faith did flow
Yett fruictles ran, could I suspect that thine
When in my hart each teare did write a line
Showld have noe spring butt outward showe?
2
My love I never wentIn maske, which made mee confident
206
Nott love put on, butt taken in,
Nor like a scarfe to bee putt off which lies,
Att choise to weare ore leave, butt when thine eyes
Did weepe thy hart had bled within,
3
Butt as the guilfull raineThe sky that weeps itt doth nott paine
Butt weares the place wherein the drops doe fall
Soe when thy clowdy lids impart
Thos showers of subtill teares; which seeme to call
Compassion when you doe nott grieve att all,
You weepe them, butt they frett my hart,
4
Deere eyes I wrong'd nott youTo thinke you were as faire, soe true;
Why wowld you then yourselves in griefe attire
With pitty to inlarge my smart
When beauty had enough inflam'd desire
And when you were even cumber'd with my fire?
Why would you blowe the coales with art?
5
For was less fault to leaveThen having left mee to deceave
For well you might have my unworthe refused,
Nor cowld I have of wronge complaind
Butt since your scorne, you with deceipt confusd
My undesert you have with teares excus'd
And with the guilt your self have stained.
| Poems (1983) | |